


We Only Have Snow Long

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Safehouse love confessions, fuzzy duckies, let's get it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Arthur is on the run and Eames offers a safe habour.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycitruspocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/gifts).



> For my-citrus-pocket, whose prompt was: Bathrobe. I hope you like it! Happy Valentine's Day!!!<3<3<3

Arthur’s tired. No, scratch that, he’s exhausted. Mind-numbing, bone-aching, heavy-limbed exhaustion. He left Vienna under a hail of gunfire thirty-six hours ago and at that point he’d been awake for almost three days straight. He’d dozed a bit on the train, but fatigue has never been a match for adrenaline and he’d snapped awake at every little noise. 

 

He’s coasting on fumes. He’s run down and burned out, and all he wants to do is collapse and sleep. At this point, he’s not even sure he cares that it would kill him. Freezing to death in the snowbank he’s currently lying in almost sounds cozy right about now. It’s not warm, but he thinks he’s just numb enough to ignore the burning that’s creeping into his fingers and toes. 

 

A shadow appears in front of him, blocking out the light from the pole in front of the house. Eames squints at him through the smoke of his cigar and shakes his head.

 

“Almost made it, did you?” 

 

Strong hands that are more gentle than they have any right to be haul him out of the snow. He blinks and suddenly he’s got a first row view of Eames’ ass. Arthur frowns at the little fuzzy ducks before the world goes black.

 

Arthur wakes up sweating. He’s wrapped in quilts on the floor in front of a roaring fire and he feels as though his skin is about to melt off. He struggles out of his heavy cocoon, flopping onto the wood floor and yelping at the shocking change in temperature.

 

“Easy now,” Eames mutters, peeling the blankets away.

 

“What?” Arthur croaks, his voice dry and sore.

 

“Calm down and sit up, I’ll get you some tea.”

 

Tea? Arthur doesn’t want tea, he wants to bound outside and gulp down handfuls of the pristine snow he can see through the patio window. Cleanse his throat with the purity and chill of its crystalline body. But Eames brings him tea, and Arthur’s too weak to argue, so he drinks it, barely able to hold the cup to his lips. 

 

Eames hauls him to his feet once the tea is gone, settling him at the table in a rounded, wooden chair that looks like it was handmade a hundred years ago.

 

“When’s the last time you ate?” Eames asks, dropping two slices of bread in the toaster.

 

“What day is it?” Arthur asks, scrubbing his hands over his face.

 

“The thirteenth.”

 

Arthur thinks back. He’d been on his way back to the hotel room his team had been working out of, with his sixth coffee and a blueberry scone, when he’d spotted his tail. Before that had been leftover pasta in his suite the night before. 

 

“Thursday?” he guesses.

 

Eames pauses in buttering the toast and shakes his head. “You are a colossal arse, you know that?”

 

“What did I do?” Arthur demands, hating how weak he sounds.

 

Eames throws the knife on the counter and turns to stare at him. “What did you do? You can’t be serious.”

 

Arthur flushes. He hates being the target of Eames’ anger because it always feels so personal. Like worry, and disappointment, and the aching feeling that you’ve violated the person you swore to protect.

 

“If you didn’t want me to stay here you should have-”

 

“Shut up. Just shut the hell up. You call me three days ago and ask if you can drop in because the job’s come down around your ears. A job, may I remind you, that I warned you not to take. Then you disappear. You fall entirely off the fucking grid while I sit here and wait. I think, well, that’s Arthur for you. He’s the best at going underground so it’s best just to wait him out. He’ll turn up. Then I get a call from the postmaster, who says someone asked her for directions to my house, and I think, that’s him. Arthur’s arrived. So I wait. And I wait some more. And finally, when I’ve decided you’ve fucked off to God knows where instead of coming here and I’ve pulled out all the arsenal to defend myself, because clearly  _ someone _ is coming, I find you freezing to death in a snowbank twenty feet from my door and your car halfway in a ditch down the road.”

 

Eames never raises his voice and Arthur hates that. In his world, when people get mad they yell. That’s how you know where you stand. But Eames never yells. Not at Arthur. He’s heard Eames shout down extractors, and clients, and small arms dealers, but when it comes to Arthur, he’s silent and deadly. It makes Arthur’s skin crawl with how calm he sounds.

 

“Was I really only twenty feet away?” he asks, running his thumbnail along a scratch in the tabletop.

 

Eames huffs and tosses the plate of toast in front of him. “I moved your damn car. Snow tires, Arthur, they’re not just a suggestion around here.”

 

“I know that now, thank you.” Arthur tears off a piece of toast and nearly groans when he pops it in his mouth. The bread is thick and the butter salty, and it just might be the best damn thing he’s ever tasted.

 

“Eat slowly or your stomach will cramp,” Eames warns, sitting across from him and glaring.

 

Arthur finishes half the toast before he gets up the courage to speak. “Would it help if I said I was just gathering my strength to get out of the snow bank when you showed up?”

 

Eames laughs, loud and sharp, and something loosens in Arthur’s chest. “Like hell you were. You were half frozen and nearly unconscious.”

 

“I remember you, isn’t that enough?”

 

Eames lights a cigarette and studies him for a minute. “If only it were,” he says quietly and gets up.

 

Arthur frowns at Eames’ robe. It’s fluffy and short and navy blue, broken up by tiny yellow-“Ducks.”

 

“Pardon?” Eames asks from the where he’s reheating the kettle. 

 

“There are ducks on your robe.”

 

Eames just blinks at him. “Did you hit your head?”

 

“Are there not ducks on it?” Arthur asks, worried.

 

“There are,” Eames allows. “But it’s not like you to point out something so obvious.”

 

“I think you mean ridiculous.”

 

A smile cracks over Eames’ face. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

 

“But why are there ducks on it?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you’re a grown man,” Arthur points out.

 

“Grown men can’t like ducks? No one tell the ornithologists.” Eames takes a drag of his cigarette and stubs it out on a dish.

 

“I’m serious. And why is it so short? It’s freezing here.”

 

“Are you cold now?” Eames asks, bringing the teapot back to the table.

 

“No, I’m fine.”

 

“Then what’s the issue, exactly?”

 

“You came out to get me in that robe.”

 

“Well, I put boots on. Wasn’t going to go traipsing into the snow to rescue you in my slippers.”

 

“But you must have been cold,” Arthur says stubbornly. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much, but he can’t quite seem to look away from the hem of the robe, where Eames’ muscular thighs are are on display.

 

“Well I wasn’t about to take the time to get changed. You’d have caught hypothermia. Normal people just say thank you and move on, you know.” Eames lights another cigarette, obviously annoyed with Arthur’s arguing.

 

“Thank you,” Arthur says, trying to smile when Eames eyes him suspiciously. “I’m sorry if you were cold.”

 

Eames grunts and drops back into his chair, stubbing out the barely smoked cigarette.

 

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Arthur chides, tearing his toast into smaller pieces and trying not to smile.

 

“Not as quickly as you will,” Eames mutters. “So, tell me what happened, then. Sonia sold you out, didn’t she?”

 

“If I say yes are you going to gloat?” Arthur asks.

 

“Absolutely.” 

 

Arthur sighs, sitting back. “In my defense, I don’t think she did it until the very end.”

 

“While your might is great, darling, fear will only get you so far.”

 

“And I suppose you could have kept her from going rogue?” Arthur sneers, but his heart’s not in it.

 

“No, I would have told her to stuff it when she came looking for a team, which I did, which I also told you to do.” Eames steals a piece of Arthur’s toast and pops it in his mouth.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you were right, I was wrong. Are you happy now?”

 

“No, Arthur, I’m not happy. Someone tried to kill you. Someone pointed a gun to your head and shot at you and I wasn’t there to stop them.” Eames’ voice is tight and Arthur can’t decipher the look on Eames’ face so he looks away.

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

Eames snorts. “Clearly.”

 

Arthur scratches his neck, his appetite suddenly gone. He knows he messed up, he doesn’t need Eames to keep pointing it out. He’s got his own neuroses and guilt to deal with on the matter.

 

“I’m still pretty tired, I think I’ll lie down.” He gets up and pulls one of the discarded quilts from the pile on the floor, wrapping it around his shoulders.

 

“Bedroom’s at the back, shower’s through the third door.” Eames tells him, brushing crumbs off his fingers.

 

Arthur makes it halfway down the hall before he turns back. Eames is still at the table, his hands pressed to his mouth as he stares out the window at the snow. Arthur wants to thank him again, feels like it’s due, but instead he turns away. In the bedroom he falls face down on the bed and is asleep immediately.

 

Arthur wakes to his stomach growling. He’s famished, but the bed smells like Eames and he’s not shocked to find himself hard and rocking against the sheets. With not inconsiderable willpower, he forces himself to stop. He buries his face in the pillow as a concession, inhaling the spicy, woodsy scent that Eames carries with him. He needs to get up. Drag himself out of Eames’ bed and into the shower where he can jerk off in shame and peace, because if he does this here, now, with the essence of Eames all around him, he’ll never forgive himself.

 

When he tiptoes from the bedroom to the bathroom he can hear Eames singing under his breath as he putters around the kitchen. Arthur stops to listen, trying to work out what song it is, but Eames crosses to the patio doors and Arthur darts out of sight, his heart racing as he presses his forehead to the wood of the closed bathroom door.

 

His shower is hot and long, and despite his best efforts, does nothing to dispel the want that coils, sharp and heady in his gut when he comes out to find Eames putting dinner on the table. Eames is different here. His hair is longer, his beard grown out, and there’s a purpose to his movements that Arthur doesn’t often see when they’re working. On the job Eames is the very picture of laid-back indifference, an attitude Arthur knows is carefully cultivated to make people underestimate him. But here Eames is in command, he’s focused and smooth, going through his tasks with an eye for detail he usually only shows when things go wrong.

 

He looks every bit the capable mountain man in this house, with its exposed wooden beams and the axe propped up against the back door. Eames is at home in a way Arthur has never seen, and it suits him. It makes Arthur want to feel like he belongs here, too.

 

This affection for Eames is hardly new; it’s always been there, simmering in the background while they worked together, off and on, over the years. There’d been a time, once, when Arthur had thought they were heading in the same direction, both ready to accept  what they’d come to mean to each other, but Eames had pulled back at the last moment, gruff and flippant. Arthur had been unwilling to leave himself vulnerable a second time.

 

“Hungry?” Eames asks when he sees Arthur lurking in the hallway, watching.

 

“Starved, actually. Can I help?”

 

“Sit,” Eames waves him towards the table. “You have impeccable timing as usual and everything’s done.”

 

Dinner is lamb kabobs and Arthur’s stomach growls loudly as Eames serves him, chuckling while he loads Arthur’s plate with meat and roasted potatoes. Arthur compliments Eames on the meal and tucks in, stopping only for a sip of the pale ale Eames pours. He’s too hungry to make conversation, but Eames doesn’t seem bothered, watching him eat for a few minutes before starting in on his own.

 

After dinner they do dishes, side by side at the sink, a warm, content heaviness settling inside Arthur and making him laugh instead of scowl when Eames flicks soap suds onto his shirt, and when Eames comes out of the bedroom in his duck-covered robe and tosses Arthur a towel, he simply shrugs and starts on his shirt buttons. 

 

Eames is already settled in the sunken hot tub just past the end of the patio, a six pack of beer bottles wedged into the snow beside him. Arthur’s not sure if he’s naked or not, and he’s not sure he cares, but he has to hide a smile when he slides into the steaming water and Eames’ eyes linger on his bare flesh.

 

The combination of the cold air and warm water makes his skin tingle and he feels the tensions of the last week bleed out of him as he sinks lower. 

 

“You know, for a long time I didn’t even know this country existed,” Arthur tells him as Eames hands him a beer.

 

“Well, that’s the American education system in a nutshell.”

 

Arthur smiles, bringing the bottle to his lips. “Fuck you.”

 

Eames eyes Arthur as he drinks, draining half of his own bottle. “Andorra. It does sound like it’s a place in a fairy tale, doesn’t it?”

 

“It really does,” Arthur says, leaning his head on the edge of the tub and closing his eyes. “How many people even live in this town? I think I counted all of twenty houses in town.”

 

“Around 500 or so.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“It’s enough,” Eames huffs.

 

Arthur opens one eye and squints at Eames. “Enough for what?”

 

Eames rolls his head in Arthur’s direction. “Enough that I know when someone new shows up.”

 

“Ah, I see.” Arthur smiles and takes another drink. “Clever.”

 

“Hmm,” Eames agrees, draining his bottle.

 

Arthur hears him open another and takes a long pull, finishing off his beer quicker than he normally would, just so he can smile and steal the bottle from Eames’ fingers when he’s finished taking the first sip.

 

Eames shakes his head and pulls another out of the snow. Inside, a clock chimes, low and long and Eames salutes Arthur with his bottle.

 

“Happy Valentine’s day, darling,” Eames says, and there’s something about the wry twist to his mouth and the soft regret in his eyes that makes Arthur’s head swim. He shoves his bottle into the snow and throws caution to the wind, cutting through the space between them and crawling into Eames’ lap.

 

Eames is startled and still, but Arthur’s usually the one to keep the ball rolling, so he plunges on, cupping Eames’ face in his wet hands and kissing him. Arthur nibbles gently at Eames’ upper lip and that’s all it takes for large hands to clamp down on his hip, Eames’ lush mouth opening under his. Eames kisses like he’s drowning. Like he’s caught, and desperate, and Arthur’s mouth is the key to his survival. His hands roam up and down Arthur’s back, pulling him closer, tighter, to the solid warmth of Eames’ body while Arthur tries to conform to fit perfectly into the spaces Eames has left open for him. 

 

Arthur’s hard, and when his cock rubs against Eames’ stomach, he gasps, trying to pull Eames out of his seat so he can wrap his legs around him properly. Eames pulls away, panting and swearing, and pushing Arthur off. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Arthur demands, reaching for him. 

 

Eames grabs his wrists, kissing Arthur’s open palms with a sadness that makes Arthur ache. 

 

Eames shakes his head, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I can’t do this. Not here.”

 

Arthur frowns, looking around. “Would you rather go inside?” he asks, confused. Eames wants this, he knows he does. They’ve both wanted it for so long Arthur can no longer remember a time when he didn’t think only of Eames during each and every encounter, no matter who his partner was.

 

Eames chokes out a laugh that sounds like a sob. “Christ, no.”

 

“Then what’s wrong?” Arthur tries not to sound angry, but Eames’ thumbs are stroking across his pulse and a moment ago he had everything he ever wanted.

 

“I just. Maybe if this was some anonymous hotel room, you know? Where it wouldn’t matter that it doesn’t mean anything. But not here. This is my  _ home _ ,” Eames sounds gutted, and Arthur can’t make sense of it. “This is my home and I can’t face coming back here once you’re gone. You can’t stay and if we do this and you leave, it’ll be ruined. All of it.”

 

“Why can’t I stay?” Arthur asks, unable to keep the petulant tone from his voice.

 

Eames laughs, but it’s a broken and harsh sound. “Darling, we tried this once, remember?”

 

Arthur screws up his face and pulls out of Eames’ grip. “No, we didn’t.”

 

“We did. In Baja. We were a breath away from this. You said you weren’t ready to settle.”

 

It’s there, in his face, how badly Eames has been hurting, and Arthur has no idea how he’s missed it all this time. This man, this gentle, capable, dynamic man, thinks Arthur not only doesn’t love him, but doesn’t want to.

 

“For Christ’s sake, Eames, I said I wasn’t ready to settle  _ down _ ,” Arthur laughs shakily, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You’re an idiot. But it’s okay because so am I, and I’ve been in love with you since the Juarez job and I could kick myself for not telling you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry I let you believe you weren’t loved.”

 

Eames stares at him, his mouth working, but no sound coming out. He kicks Arthur, slow and deliberate, and Arthur grins, wrapping his arms around Eames’ neck and pressing him back against the side of the tub.

 

“I love you.”

 

Eames nods, his eyes wide and wet, and then he’s kissing Arthur again, like he wants to crawl inside his mouth and live there. Eames stands and curls Arthur around him, lifting him out of the water and heading up the stairs out of the hot tub.

 

“I should drop you in the snow,” Eames tells him between kisses.

 

“You should,” Arthur agrees, sucking a mark just below Eames’ jaw and making him shiver. 

 

Arthur yelps when Eames’ arms loosen and he scrambles to hold on, squeezing his thighs tighter around Eames’ waist and clawing at his shoulders. Eames chuckles, his fingers digging into Arthur’s ass as he repositions him.

 

“Bastard,” Arthur growls, biting at Eames’ shoulder where cursive writing loops across his skin.

“Careful pet, I can still drop you on your ass.” Eames shoves the patio door open and Arthur shudders at the heat that assaults his chilled body.

 

“There are plenty of better things to do with my ass, I assure you,” he says darkly into Eames’ ear. He’s rewarded with Eames stumbling into the house and pressing him against the wall while he tries to shut the door, a task that’s apparently difficult with his tongue halfway down Arthur’s throat.

 

There’s a picture frame digging into his spine, but Eames is hard and panting into his mouth, and Arthur’s pretty sure he could come with just the friction of his cock against Eames’ stomach. But he’s waited a long time for this, and so has Eames, and he’s determined to make it to the bed so he can show Eames just how adored he truly is.

 

“Bed, now,” Arthur gasps as Eames shoves against him, trying to get his swim trunks down over his hips.

 

Eames grunts and grips Arthur tighter, his fingers dipping into Arthur’s crack as he steps away from the wall and carries Arthur down the hall. The bed is warm and soft, and Arthur gets a whole half a second to enjoy it before Eames in on him, spreading his bulk over Arthur and pressing him into the mattress.

 

“What do you want?” Eames asks, touching Arthur everywhere he can reach. “You can have anything.”

 

Arthur kisses him, hard and fast, cupping Eames’ face to still his increasingly frantic movements. It’s like now that he has Arthur here, under him, he’s determined to take all he can before Arthur changes him mind.

 

“I want you. That’s all.”

 

Eames eyes search his, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a nervous habit Eames usually has a tight hold on. “Yeah,” Eames whispers, but it’s less a question and more a reminder so Arthur kisses him, careful and deep, holding onto Eames’ gaze as he pours as much emotion into it as he can.

 

Things slow down after that, Eames’ touches turning gentle but possessive as he explores Arthur’s body, moving from his mouth to his neck, and down, down, until he’s taking Arthur in, his mouth slack and warm as he gets a feel for it. His tongue smooths over every inch of Arthur’s cock, coaxing precome out of the tip and groaning when Arthur arches under him, his body seeking more, but his mind refusing to ask. They need this, this beginning, this expanding, heated exploration of each other. Arthur doesn’t know Eames like this and he’s eager to learn, but not at the risk of Eames thinking this is all there will be.

 

Eames shoves his trunks off and climbs back over Arthur, holding himself further away than Arthur would like, but he just runs his hands up Eames’ chest, relishing the rasp of Eames’ chest hair under his palms. This is his now. Eames is his, and he’s never letting go.

 

“What do you want?” Eames asks again, his eyes dark and his mouth red, and Arthur can’t resist pulling him down for a kiss, hooking one of his legs over Eames’ hip, but not rubbing against him.

 

“Anything, everything.” Arthur smiles. “What have you dreamt about?”

 

Eames blows out a heavy breath, a flush rising over his neck and face. “What haven’t I?”

 

Arthur arches under him, their cocks sliding together, and the sound that Eames makes, something low and guttural that causes his voice to tremble, rips straight through Arthur, and all of a sudden all he wants is Eames under him, gasping and shuddering. He wants to draw that noise out again, this time as he sinks inside, taking Eames apart and imprinting himself on his very soul so that he never again questions how Arthur feels about him.

 

“Can I fuck you?” Arthur asks, letting his finger trail down Eames’ back and over the swell of his ass. Eames closes his eyes and shivers, biting his lip as he pressed back into Arthur’s touch.

 

“Yes,” Eames whispers, and it’s so quiet that had Arthur not been staring at Eames’ mouth, he would have missed it. “Please.”

 

Arthur pushes him back a little, wriggling up until he’s leaning against the headboard. He pulls Eames into his lap and kisses his chest, swiping his thumbs over Eames’ nipples again and again until Eames drops his head back and moans. 

 

“Where’s your lube?” Arthur asks against the skin of Eames’ clavicle and Eames darts to the side, yanking so hard on the nightstand’s drawer that the whole thing comes out and clatters to the floor. Eames swears and leans over the side of the bed, his hands shaking when he hands the bottle to Arthur.

 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Arthur soothes, dropping the bottle to sit up and pull Eames closer. “I’m not going anywhere, and this is only the first time. We’re going to have plenty of time to do this again. And again, and again.” Arthur grins.

 

Eames nods, licking his lips, but he’s still shaking and Arthur’s heart aches.

 

“Eames, I love you. That means I’m in this. As long as you’ll have me.”

 

Eames nods again, running his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck. “I know, yeah. I do, it’s just. Jesus, Arthur, I want to check my totem.” There’s guilt in his eyes, but Arthur understands where the compulsion is coming from.

 

“You can. I’ll be right here when you’re done.” He cups his hands over Eames shoulder blades, still holding him, but loose enough that Eames can back away if he needs to.

 

“No,” Eames shakes his head. “I want to trust this. I need to. Besides, if it’s a dream, I’ll probably still come back in here.”

 

Arthur laughs. “I know the feeling.”

 

“I love you,” Eames says, his voice strained, and it’s the first time he’s said it. It feels so much better than Arthur thought it would.

 

His smile is so wide it hurts his face, and he kisses Eames through it. “I love you so fucking much. Let me show you?”

 

Eames picks the bottle up and pops the cap, coating the fingers Arthur offers. Arthur spreads his legs, forcing Eames’ thighs wider, and god, does that ever makes a pretty picture. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen until he sinks a finger inside and Eames’ face goes slack and soft, his fingers digging into Arthur’s shoulders as he works himself down, pulling Arthur in faster than he would have gone on his own.

 

“I want to take my time with you,” Arthur says, thrusting his finger slowly, rubbing against the slick warmth inside Eames. “We’ve waited so long for this, we deserve to savor it.”

 

“Arthur,” Eames slurs, leaving sloppy kisses along Arthur’s neck. He takes the second finger beautifully, his sigh going breathy and high as Arthur strokes along his inner walls, acquainting himself with the feel of Eames’ body.

 

“You’re gorgeous,” Arthur tells him, spreading his fingers as he pulls out. He wants Eames soft and yielding, half out of his mind with pleasure before he takes him. He wants Eames to remember this. To never forget how good it was the first time. How careful Arthur was with him, and how perfectly they fit together. And they will, Arthur knows it like he knows this is it for him. It’s going to be Eames every day from here on out.

 

“Please,” Eames pants, pushing back onto Arthur’s fingers. “More.”

 

Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ waist and pulls his fingers out, rubbing around Eames’ rim and making him squirm before he pushes back in with three, slow and steady until he’s as deep as he can go and Eames is twitching around him. He’s so tight Arthur’s fingers are threatening to cramp, but then Eames rolls his hips and groans, and there’s nothing in the world that could make Arthur pull out now.

 

He lets Eames take control, lets him fuck himself on Arthur’s fingers while Arthur drags his mouth over the skin in front of him, teeth and tongue leaving a trail of red over Eames’ tattoos. Arthur wants to be permanent, too. Want to score his mark into Eames’ skin where everyone can see it. Wants to carve Eames’ name into his own flesh in return. 

 

“Arthur, please,” Eames begs, slamming his hips down, and he’s looser now, warm and slick around Arthur’s hand. He thinks about adding a fourth, but Eames looks ready to go off and Arthur doesn’t want to chance not being inside him when he comes. 

 

Arthur slips lower, leaning his head back against the headboard until Eames is directly over him and he can slide his fingers out and replace them quickly with his cock. Eames’ hand grip the headboard and he moans, low and long when Arthur pulls back, leaving just the tips of his fingers inside Eames while he slicks up his cock and nudges it place.

 

“Is it okay like this?” Arthur whispers, because the moment feels fragile and sacred, and the last thing he wants to do is break the tension between them.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eames assures him, holding himself up over Arthur.

 

Arthur watches Eames as the head of his cock breaches his hole. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t close them, instead watching Arthur just as closely, syncing their breaths and looking impossibly fond as Arthur sinks into him. The headboard creaks under his hands and Arthur’s lips twitch into a smile, giving a little jerk of his hips and making Eames swear. Once he’s all the way in, he wraps his hands around Eames’ waist, encouraging him to move, to take what he needs from Arthur. Eames rises up and drops back down, the air punching out of him as he does it again and again, slower than Arthur would have thought, but with enough force to make the bed tremble.

 

“That’s it,” Arthur praises, his hands caressing Eames’ waist, loving the way he moves, so powerful and controlled. “Let me hear you.”

 

“Arthur,” Eames whines, bracing one hand on Arthur’s thigh and leaning back. He grinds down on Arthur’s cock, his inner muscles clinging to Arthur’s cock, working him until it’s all he can do not to slam up into Eames.

 

Eames is incredible above him, Arthur can hardly believe the sight. It’s so much better than his wildest dreams, and when Eames hits that spot, clenching down around him and swearing loudly, Arthur nearly loses his mind. Eames is relentless, working his body down, and down, using Arthur for his pleasure until he’s sweaty and keening, begging Arthur to touch him.

 

Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ cock, squeezing gently around the crown where the head is peeking out of the foreskin. Eames isn’t fully retracted, but Arthur knows better than to try and force it so he just strokes him, slipping his fingers through the precome that spurts weakly from the slit. Eames’ cock is gorgeous, thick and flushed, and Arthur’s mouth waters. He jerks him slowly, matching Eames’ rhythm as he chases his orgasm.

 

Arthur feels trapped, Eames’ large thighs bracing his hips as his bulk pins him down. It’s sweaty, and too warm, and Arthur wants to fucking live right there. His free hand grips Eames’ ass, pulling his cheeks open while he rocks up, helping Eames along. Eames groans when Arthur’s fingertips trace around where they’re joined, just stroking the heated flesh and feeling where Eames is stretched so beautifully around him.

 

“Jesus, your fingers are long,” Eames remarks, his voice raw.

 

Arthur chuckles, twisting his hand on the upstroke and shivering when Eames clenches. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

“Never,” Eames growls, working himself faster, harder, the sound of their bodies coming together singing out in the quiet of the room.

 

“Come for me,” Arthur pleads, jerking Eames faster. “Come for me so I can take you apart. It’ll be so good, I promise.”

 

“Tell me,” Eames gasps. “Tell me what-  Arthur!” Eames’ whole body shudders and Arthur slams into him, his hand flying over Eames’ cock, coaxing him closer.

 

“I’m going to lay you down. Pull out just so I can push back in. You’re so tight, fuck, Eames, you’re so perfect. I love you. I want.” Arthur’s panting, the look of intense concentration and need on Eames’ face undoing him. “I want to fuck you. God, I want to make it so good. I want you to feel me for days. I want to pin you down and give you everything. I want you to scream my name until you’re hoarse, and then I want you to scream it some more.”

 

Eames is nearly sobbing above him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his muscles standing out, flexed and shaking, and then he spasms, going vise-like around Arthur, choking him with the shock of it as his orgasm starts. Arthur slows his hand, milking sticky white fluid out of Eames as he keens and bucks on his cock. Eames’ rhythm is shot to hell so Arthur takes over, fucking into him, wincing against the tightness, but determined to make this as good as it can be. Eames comes for a long time, Arthur hitting his prostate the best he can as he works him through it, breathless and overwhelmed at how beautiful Eames is like this. His whole body is flushed, and there’s sweat dripping from his brow, his body a study in tension and gratification. He’s tense, muscles quivering, fingers white around Arthur’s thigh, but his face is lax, a look of dreamy satisfaction washing over his features as he comes down. 

 

He’s gasping for breath, half collapsing on top of Arthur as endorphins flood his system. Arthur gives him a minute before he pushes him back and off, adoring how pilant Eames is and swallowing the grumpy noise he makes when Arthur slides out of him. He kisses Eames slowly, coaxing him onto his back and arranging his legs, pressing himself into the vee of Eames’ spread thighs. He settles above him, licking Eames’ come off his fingers until Eames grunts and pulls him down, sliding his tongue into Arthur’s mouth and moaning when he tastes himself. Arthur rubs come over Eames’ lips, sucking it off and turning Eames’ mouth even more obscene and delicious than it usually is. 

 

Eames squirms under him and Arthur doesn’t make him wait. He laces his fingers with Eames’, grinning when Eames proves open enough that Arthur can slip back in without a steadying hand. Eames makes a satisfied, breathy sound when Arthur presses in, so he pulls back out, breaching him again and again, just to memorize it. Eames’ legs come up, his ankles locking at the small of Arthur’s back and keeping him close.

 

“Stop teasing.”

 

Arthur kisses his chin, his nose, his brow, everywhere he can reach. “I’m not teasing, I’m savoring.” Arthur punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, making them both groan.

 

“I know you want to take your time, but darling, I need you.” Eames pulls him closer, heels digging in, fingers scratching down Arthur’s back.

 

“You have me,” Arthur promises, moving slow and sure. 

 

“Arthur,” Eames whines, nails scoring Arthur’s shoulder when Arthur brushes against his prostate.

 

“Sorry, sorry. God, I just, I want to fucking live inside you, Eames.” Arthur buries his face in Eames’ neck, sucking a mark into his clavicle as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster, no longer able to keep himself for surging into the body beneath him.

 

“You do, you will,” Eames promises, holding Arthur’s head to his skin and hoisting his legs higher, opening himself even more. It’s an invitation Arthur can’t refuse and he digs his toes into the mattress, using the leverage to slam into Eames’ heat. He’s looser, but still so tight, and Arthur still can’t believe he gets to have this. Not just today, but every day after. Eames, and Eames, and Eames, forever more. 

 

“I love you,” Arthur pants, fucking Eames until he’s nearly bent in two with his thighs clamped around Arthur’s ribs, and Eames is kissing him, sloppy and wet, and Arthur’s groaning, beyond words now as Eames pulls him closer and closer to his release.

 

“Come on, darling. I love you, fuck me. Arthur, Arthur, please! Fuck me, God, that’s so good.” 

 

Eames’ hands are no doubt leaving bruises and Arthur doubles his effort, wanting to return the favour. Wanting to give Eames what he’s begging for. He’s so open and soft and Arthur wants to fill him up. Come so deep and hard inside him that there’s always a piece of him inside Eames. 

 

“Yes, yes, fuck, Arthur, please!” Eames shouts, and his cock is hard and spurting weakly between them again, startling Arthur. The squeeze and heat of Eames’ ass as he comes is just what he needs to cross the threshold and he groans, feeling his body go taut and still as his cock throbs and he comes, pumping his seed into Eames.

 

He feels his orgasm from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair, and his left calf is starting to cramp, but he can’t pull back. He crushes Eames to the mattress, picking up his thrusting again as soon as he can draw breath, and Eames must be sensitive and exhausted, but he just wraps his arms around Arthur’s back and holds him close, murmuring into the patch of skin beneath Arthur’s jaw.

 

Eventually, Arthur’s too soft and he can’t go on. He slips out of Eames, sweaty and wrung out, his joints sore and his throat dry. Eames cups his face, kissing him firm and just a little dirty, before releasing him.

 

“I love you,” Eames tells him, and his eyes are drooping, his fingers slipping away from Arthur’s skin, his legs dropping back to the mattress, but Arthur smiles because to him, Eames has never looked so beautiful.

 

“I love you so much,” Arthur responds, moving to lay next to Eames, half his body still draped over Eames’ hip and leg. He can’t bear to be separated right now, needs to keep Eames under him somehow, to make sure he’s not going to leave. 

 

They trade lazy kisses until Eames falls asleep, then Arthur trails his fingers over the dark swirls inked into Eames’ skin, memorizing every line until he can trace them absently. He knows this is only the beginning, but they’ve waited so long to get here that Arthur can’t help the giddy sense of desperation that sits inside him, just waiting to rear its head in a moment of weakness. He pushes it down, takes comfort in the body beside him and in the love they’ve professed. 

 

Eames shifts, giving Arthur a sleepy smile when he opens his eyes and catches Arthur watching him. “You should sleep.”

 

Arthur rubs his nose against Eames’ shoulder, hiding his smile at the rough quality of Eames’ voice. He did that. He took this gorgeous, formidable man and reduced him to gasps and moans, slid inside him and pulled two mind-shattering orgasms out of him.

 

“Don’t be smug,” Eames chides, running his hands through Arthur’s hair and rolling over top of him, laying his head on Arthur’s chest.

 

“I’m not smug,” Arthur protests, unable to keep his hands from the skin of Eames’ back.

 

“You are, but you’ve earned it.” Eames makes a content noise and settles his weight onto Arthur. “But you should sleep because in a few hours I’m going to wake up to return the favour and I want you well rested when I  _ destroy _ you.”

 

Arthur laughs, hooking his ankle over Eames’ thigh and giving him a quick squeeze. “I look forward to it, Mr. Eames.”

  
  


  
  



End file.
